


Better than None

by staticfree



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Blood, M/M, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2019-01-16 14:13:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12344289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staticfree/pseuds/staticfree
Summary: Do something that surprises the audiencehad been his words, mere seconds before skating into the staged darkness of the rink.Do something that surprises ME.Well. Surprise?





	Better than None

**Author's Note:**

> Wow. Never thought my first foray into the YOI fandom would be Otayuri. Be warned- this chapter is more of a prologue than anything else. Do not be fooled by any perceived fluffiness. We're going dark places.  
> No vampires, though. Despite how it looks.

There are a lot of emotions happening in Otabek’s vicinity. That’s fine. It’s fine.

There is a silver medallist and a former gold medallist hugging each other by his shoulder. It's a beautiful hug, really, everything a hug should be. His eyelids twitch under the force of camera lightbulbs in his vague direction, and he hopes his own monochromatic clothing doesn't spoil any of the photographs. It’s the kind of hug that has the potential to- yes, as he had feared, the hug expands like water and he’s suddenly sandwiched between blue and magenta sateen. He accepts the sudden inclusion, not unhappily.

“Wow!” Viktor Nikiforov is telling him. The way he says it gives the impression that he has said it tonight A Lot. Otabek looks up at the familiar face, overwhelmed in a mute sort of way. When he was younger he had a casual obsession with the man, just like any other young skater. A few days ago he was showing him pictures on his phone of his future fiancé- stripping? In front of the ISU? Maybe? There had been nudity, certainly. Well, whatever. Just another way in which his life has taken a turn for the weird this weekend.

“Yeah…Wow.” Current silver medallist and sometime stripper Yuuri Katsuki’s version of the word might as well be in a different language, such is the difference in intonation. Otabek’s absolutely okay with that. He likes Katsuki- what little he knows of him. There's friendliness in his frankly beautiful face, but there's a touch of disapproval too. So, he thinks the exhibition was too much. He does not begrudge him the opinion; it absolutely was. “You sure lit a fire in our Yurio.”

The way he says it makes Otabek feel a bit off, kind of like being given change from 20 dollars instead of the 10 he'd given. In relation to Yuri... well, he’ll decide how he feels about that later, when he’s packed his luggage and showered the tumult of Barcelona off of his skin. “It was all him,” he says simply. That’s even sort of true. After a moment’s thought he adds, “Congratulations again. I mean, for the medal- and you know, the rest of it. I’m happy for you both.”

The synchronised glance at their gleaming gold rings is as natural and beautiful as the choreography they’d already displayed this evening, and the two of them blush sweetly beneath entirely unwarranted stage make up. Their mumbled thanks are genuine, and he’s happy to see Katsuki’s expression soften. "Your programs were amazing," he says sincerely, then leans in closer. “I'd liked to have had you up there with us, if I’m honest."

Otabek never feels comfortable with this sort of talk. He's quiet but he  _listens_ , and he didn't need to be around JJ's self-appointed arch-enemy all weekend to know that the talk of the GP final is that he was over-scored. He feels himself close up- his own performance could have been better and he feels the scoring reflected that. Sure, JJ is a jerk, but... "Next time," he says, smiling. He means it as both a kindness and a caution. He was good this weekend. He'll get even better.  
   


“You bit me.”  
   
It's such an out-of-place comment in the context of the slightly tense moment that Otabek jumps a little, turning from the happy couple to the owner of the new voice. Just in time he schools his expression into indifference because…

Yuri Plisetsky looks... different.

The make-up he'd haphazardly applied (in the ladies' bathroom because JJ was allegedly practising some sort of pre-exhibition mental affirmation in the mens' bathroom mirror, _God, what a douche_ ) is mostly where it was supposed to be but his fine straw-coloured hair was barely alluding to it's original "style", puffing out in cottony clouds from random sections of his scalp. The shirt he'd grabbed from the teen girl section of Zara yesterday is fraying near the back where he'd thoughtfully introduced it to the ice. The whole effect is that of a drunk clubber at 3am, carrying 4 inch high heels and dashing barefoot across gravelled roads whilst singing Cascada. Badly.

In short Yuri Plisetsky looks fucking glorious, but in the moment Otabek has no idea what he was talking about. "I’m sorry, what?”

“When you took my glove off.” Yuri must see something in his face that requires clarification, because he continues. “You know. With your teeth. Like, maybe ten minutes ago.” He presents his left hand with a flourish he probably doesn’t intend, more gently than he had on the ice. It’s a fine hand, as far as hands go. Pale, a few freckles dotted here and there. Sort of narrow? Half a dozen healed cuts on the fingers, likely from overly-enthusiastic Bielmanns-  _not that his own inflexible ass would know what that’s like,_ Otabek thinks dryly. It’s almost certainly the best hand he’s likely to ever have in his mouth.

And it’s bleeding.

“Um.” Look, he knows he's a bit slow tonight but he’s still reeling from the applause, and he knows it isn’t really his but there were just a lot of people who were cheering at him, if not for him. It’s more akin to what he feels when he’s playing a DJ set than when he’s skating a routine. It’s possibly the easiest praise he’s ever received in his life- maybe that’s why it’s making him feel this way. Maybe that’s why his throat has shrunk to a pinhole. He should stand rinkside and glower sullenly at Russians more often.

There’s still a hand in front of his face and it is still bleeding.

Otabek inhales hard, because this is Not A Good Thing. It's a pretty deep wound, too- does Yuri need to see a doctor? Does Otabek need to visit a dentist? Do the edge of his incisors need filing? Is he an actual monster?  _Do something that surprises the audience_ had been his words, mere seconds before skating into the staged darkness of the rink. _Do something that surprises ME._ Well. Surprise? “Shit. I...I’m sorry. It was a bit of an impulsive decision… uh, does it hurt?”

Yuri, his best friend of three (3) days, blinks at him. His mascara is clumping where sweat has run into his eyes, and all at once he’s back at Park Güell, looking out over this odd, slightly frightening city that had witnessed him taking leave of his senses.  _Do you want to be friends or not_  he’d said, like some kind of begrudging business transaction, because Otabek hasn’t the time to dance around coy misunderstandings or false hostility, not when he feels in his heart that coincidences happen for a reason. Not when...

“Yes.”

It’s so soft he’s not sure he would have been able to hear him had he not been listening for his reply, an answer too soft for the question. There is no reproach to be found in his voice and frankly, he’s surprised. Part of him is fully expecting to be screamed at- he has heard of people who have been quite literally kicked in the ass by this kid for less. He feels like he ought to do something so he rummages around the inside pocket of his jacket, dismissing items by touch. Cellphone... pain meds... earphones... mints… “Here. I have a tissue.” He offers it like a white flag. “It’s clean.” As an afterthought, “I’ve not got any blood borne diseases you should know about. Heh.”  
_Heh?_  


Yuri hasn’t taken his sticky, plum-rimmed eyes off him once. It's unsettling, even if he's fairly confident that he isn't about to have a pair of purple skate guards shoved down his throat. To punctuate the awkwardness Otabek takes the proffered hand and presses the white tissue it to the wound and, well, that’s probably the worst idea in what has been a day of abysmal decisions, because his hand feels as lovely as it looks.  


He knows he has a lot of confused feelings regarding this kid, okay. Has done ever since he was 15, and able to play the churning in his gut off as professional admiration. It isn’t like he’d thought much of him since then, perhaps lazily Googling the name every couple months. It’s not like he’d watched hair and limbs lengthen, features sharpen. It’s not like he’s quickly navigated away from pictures bearing Yuri’s image as if the boy might sense, thousands of miles away, that someone is looking at his face and thinking only _you. Three years, three years, and it’s only been you._

Because, admittedly, that would be weird.

The blood has bloomed into the tissue and stopped at a diameter of a few centimetres. Yuri glances down and looks- disappointed? “Hey, thanks. For not letting me bleed out after the skate of my fucking life.”

Otabek smiles- that was more like Yuri, at least. “It’s the least I can do.”

Yuri gives a brief snort of laughter before clutching the edge of his jacket and leaning into his space. Otabek is enveloped in a small cloud of sweat, warmth and high-end cosmetics. “Did you save my phone number?” he hisses, like it’s all he’s wanted to say since he came off the ice.  
“Well, yeah- “  
“Instagram? Ah, never mind, I’ll request you.” His eyes are wide- frantic. “What about my email? Do you need my email?”  


Otabek’s heart hurts for a brief second. He’s known Yuri isn’t the most companionable of people, but it doesn’t stop his loneliness seeping through. “Dude. I just bit you in public. I’m not going to forget you that easily.”  
“Tsch. Don’t flatter yourself.” The softness of his expression doesn’t match the harshness of his words. “I just wanted to be sure, you know? Because we fly back to St Petersburg in the morning. Before breakfast, so…”  
“…we need to say our goodbyes now.” It’s not unexpected information. Most of the skaters and their coaches return home tomorrow, him included. Standing there in the slowly emptying arena, however, something feels... not off, exactly. It’s more that everything feels like a crescendo, when it ought to be a coda. He can’t quite bring himself to look at Yuri directly again. His raw, uncertain voice in combination with his stark beauty will be enough to make him say something truly foolish, like:

_Yuri I wish I’d talked to you in Moscow but to be honest you looked too sad, I know now that you think that’s you looking tough but it turns out I’ve been installed with a Yuri translation guide, how convenient for me_

or how about:

__

_Yuri I know it probably makes me some kind of freak but I want to kiss the hurt away from your hand, away from your mind, and i want to kiss your beautiful mean mouth most of all, OH but also I could kiss each one of your fingers, each one, and you wouldn’t feel a whisper of pain_

__

He wisely decides on a better option. “There’s Skype. There’s WhatsApp.” A thrilling thought drags a grin out of him. “There’s Worlds.”

“Worlds. Fuck.” Yuri smiles hard enough to make Otabek drop his hand and pull him into a hug. It’s sweaty and utterly necessary, and the press of Yuri’s smooth cheek into his should get him through the next few weeks just fine.

__

__

“Yurotchka. Hotel. Now.”

__

__

That was Yakov, Yuri’s coach. He glances over at his large shadow in the doorway to the stairwell, sees something in the set of his jaw that makes him think he has a lot to say about tonight’s performance. A whole lot. Otabek disentangles himself and allows himself a small chuckle at his friend’s disgruntled expression. “Time for the other shoe to drop, I think.”

“Yeah. Drop right in the old man’s face.” Yuri gives a disturbingly beatific smile at the thought.

“He’s being a good coach, Yura.” The diminutive spills out before he can stop it, and he finds he doesn’t care that much. “Travel home safely, then. And… congratulations.”

What Yuri does next will subtract approximately two hours from his sleep for the next five days, and there will come a time that he fears it has been etched on his consciousness for eternity. Holding his gaze he removes the tissue from his hand and brings the wound to his lips. It’s probably not a kiss, more of a self-soothing lick- the thought of either is equally devastating. “You too, Otabek Altin.” With that he turns, presenting Otabek with the ladder of his pale back through the slits in the shirt, and stomps gracelessly in his skate guards towards his coach.

The bloodstained tissue rests at his feet like a grotesque business card. Otabek stoops to pick it up. He ought to find a garbage bucket outside for it.


End file.
